Entries for October 2003

Frankly, judging by the email that precipitated the arrest, he should have been charged with offences against the English language.

However, what I take away from this is that the Police consider it illegal to say:

drop narparm on babys and kids in Afganistan and Iraq and have invaded 72 other nations since to install US backed military dictatorships to smash popular democratac freedom… (sic)

In the country I call home, this is at worst stupid and misinformed, but it is not criminal.

Fuck you, Phil Goff, and all our toady, spineless, lack-witted MPs who voted for this abomination to good sense and our freedom. I do hope it’s still legal to say that.

From the NZ Bill of Rights Act:

Section 14 [Freedom of expression] Everyone has the right to freedom of expression, including the freedom to seek, receive, and impart information and opinions of any kind in any form.

I think Bruce Hubbard’s rights have been rather severely curtailed here, yes?

I note that he hasn’t been charged with offences under the new Act yet; the police are suggesting to him that their new powers will allow them to seize his computer. I await the outcome with great interest.

In the meanwhile, I dashed off a letter to Phil Goff. Why not do so yourself? Just watch out for funny men with briefcases smelling of pies.

I had no idea that Australia was a repressive state, but this
survey on press freedom
ranks Oz in fiftieth place, behind such bastions of free speech as
Chile, Paraguay, Ghana and Albania!

What’s going on?

From one of my correspondents:

> The seven dwarfs went off to work
> in the mine one day, while Snow White
> stayed at home to do the housework
> and cook their lunch.
>
> However when she went to the mine
> to deliver their lunches, she found
> there had been a cave-in, and there
> was no sign of the dwarfs.
>
> Tearfully she yelled in to the mine
> entrance:"hello - is anyone there.
> Can anyone hear me".
>
> A voice floated up from the bowels
> of the mine:"Australia will win the
> Rugby World Cup"
>
> "Thanks god" said Snow White "at
> least Dopey's still alive"

Aioli is garlic mayonnaise. Ajada is the Judeo-Spanish version thereof, at least according to Claudia Roden’s Book of Jewish Food.

I can’t spot anything distinctively Jewish about Ajada, but I can attest that the recipe I am about to share with you is pungent and delicious and well worth making.

Mix a half and half cup of olive oil and sunflower oil.

Tip an egg yolk into a warm ceramic bowl and stir in some crushed garlic with a whisk. Five fat cloves is enough for me. Then blend in a tablespoon of water too, until it’s all creamy-looking. A pinch of salt would do no harm at this point.

With a steady hand, drizzle in the oil drop by drop, and whisk. I don’t think asking your lovely assistant to do the drizzling would be cheating. Make sure the oil is always thoroughly stirred in.

As you add more oil, you can increase the rate of drizzle to a thin stream. Somehow the more you add, the more easily it can be absorbed. The mixture should be noticeably thickened by the time you’re halfway through the cup.

When all the oil is in, the ajada should be thick and gloopy. Stir in the juice of half a lemon.

Once again, I am grumpily refusing to allow Hannah to go trick-or-treating, or to have anything for any children who call.

There was no Halloween when I was little. As far as I can tell, its encroachment into New Zealand owes as much to retailers who’ve spotted an opportunity as it does to the saturation of our entertainment media with American product.

I was leafing through Hannah’s homework book this evening when I discovered something disturbing. She had written several sentences like this:

“Bobby gave apples to Sam and me.”

Her teacher had carefully “corrected” these sentences to “and I”, heedless of whether “and me” was part of the object or the subject of the sentence. In four out of five sentences, the teacher was mistaken.

I’m going to have to write her a letter. I don’t like doing this, and I’m struggling to find a way to put it that isn’t patronising, irritating or smug. Said teacher has many more basic worries in a class with many children whose first language isn’t even English. But I have to anyway. Don’t I?

After reading an article on the political views expressed in Agatha Christie’s novels, I got another twinge about a long postponed project of mine, which is to do the same to the works of Terry Pratchett. Pratchett too is someone who believes in a natural order; who mistrusts grand social projects; who also fears “idealists who want to make us happy by force”. Amoral but unprincipled rulers (Lord Vetinari) are preferable to well-intentioned incompetents (King Verence is cordially ignored by his subjects) or those with actual programmes (Lilith Weatherwax, the Sourcerer, Vorbis). Those who are both good and competent (Carrot, Vimes) resist taking authority as far as they can. Unlike Christie, Pratchett is a republican. Kings are uniformly bad, unless (like Verence) they are harmless, or refuse the throne (Carrot, Pteppic).

There’s a whole political philosophy laid out in the Diskworld novels. Given their popularity, I would love to know whether they have any propaganda effect, or if their resonance with the reading public has something to do with Pratchett’s strongly articulated world-view.

Whether throwing mimes in a scorpion pit with “Learn The Words” painted on the sides is actually evil is a question for another day.

I asked Hannah what she wanted for dinner tonight, and she replied: fish. Smoked fish. It turned out that kedgeree was what she really wanted.

I like kedgeree very much. I like smoked fish in general, I’m found of rice dishes, and my mum used to make kedgeree, so it’s a done deal, really.

Kedgeree is actually what food fashion victims would call “fusion” cuisine. It is neither English nor Indian, having been invented by conquered chefs in an attempt to make something edible for the sahib from a kipper. The word itself comes from the Hindi “khichree”, which is a tasty conglomerate of rice and split peas. Why anyone thought smoked fish was a reasonable substitute for the split pea is a mystery to me, but there you are. (Actually, khichri is literally “a mixture”, without specifying substances involved, but in a food context I understand it’s always rice + legumes).

I’ve noticed that many smoked fish recipes involve poaching the fish in milk, and then tell you to discard the milk. I could see the sense of this if the fish had been given a good strong cold smoke for genuine preservation, but in these effete days where smoke is just a flavouring agent, I can tell you two things. First, the milk is probably unnecessary. Second, if you do decide to use it on textural grounds, the resulting liquor is delicious. Hannah and I drank smoked fish milk from mugs, and it was a nice way to take the edge off before dinner.

Stephen’s Inappropriately Augmented Kedgeree

Serves two hungry people by itself or more people who are just on the peckish side.

300-400g of smoked fish. I prefer something with texture, oil, and big flakes, so in New Zealand something like kahawai, trevally or warehou would all be good. Heather, if this sparks another craving, I suggest mackerel. Yer actual kipper tends to be too fine and unflakable for me.

Cook the rice. Absorption method: boil 1 ½ cups of water; tip in the rice and a teaspoon of salt; turn right down; turn the heat off after 15 minutes. Very dry rice may require 2 cups of water. It’s not an exact science, but by turning the heat off and leaving to stand, fluffy goodness is guaranteed.

Simmer the fish in enough milk to not quite cover it, turning it over after five minutes for another minute or two. Then drain the fish, skin it and flake it. As noted above, gluttons should drink the milk and not let it go to waste. I suspect it would be used to advantage in a potato casserole.

Put the butter in a large pan on a low heat and soften any vegetables you decided to toss in. Members of the onion family and the Umbelliferae work best with fish, I think, but red pepper provides crunch, sweetness, and pretty colours. Mix in the fish and the curry powder. (Yes, inauthentic, no such thing as curry powder in India, thank you, now biff it in. There’s no such thing as hamburgers in Hamburg either. Well, there are now, but there weren’t before. Just do as I say, all right?)

Stir in the rice, breaking up any naughty lumps. The more butter you put in, the easier (and tastier) this will be, but it’s between you and your cardiologist. Your heart specialist will have to let you get away with chopping up eggs to put on top, because dietary cholesterol makes bugger all diffence, and the whole egg has lecithin and other healthy goodies in it. You could mix the egg through, but then it will mush up, and the raison d’etre of Rice With Things In in my opinion is that said things are Distinguishable Lumps.

Pity the Jewish peasants, who cannot keep swine. What will they
do for lard?

The answer is shmaltz: chicken or goose fat. (It’s also,
metaphorically, cloying sentimentality. In English, such things are
sickly sweet. In Yiddish, they are greasy). Poultry took the place
of pigs in Jewish husbandry, and no shtetl housewife would be
without jars of shmaltz for cooking.

Shmaltz is delicious and lends a light and nutty note wherever
it’s used. And in producing it, you get a tasty by-product,
gribnes. Gribnes is chicken crackling&#8212pork
scratchings for the kosher, if you will.

Now that healthy cooking demands you skin the chicken, haven’t
you wondered what to do with all that chicken skin? Follow my
simple instructions for gribnes and shmaltz and enjoy a traditional
treat.

(Do not worry about your health. It turns out that chicken fat
is actually not that
bad as animal fats go. It’s less than one third saturated fat,
and almost one half monounsaturated. If you cut it with sunflower
oil, another traditional Eastern European cooking fat, your
cholesterol conscience will be clean. As for the gribnes, a little
of what you fancy does you good. If you believe in the Atkins diet,
knock
yourself out.)

First, get your chicken. Skin it. Pick off any obvious fatty
lumps from the carcase and chop them up.

Slice an onion.

Wash the skin and pat it dry with paper towels. Cut it into
strips. Sharp kitchen shears are ideal. Put the skin and the fat in
a heavy pan, on a low heat. As they melt, add the onion slices.

Eventually the skin and the onion will be a dark golden
brown.

Strain the rendered fat through a sieve into a glass jar or a
ceramic bowl. You can put the onion in also if you like, for
flavour. Reserve the skin and put it on paper towels. When it is
dry, salt it.

If you have the willpower not to eat the gribnes all at once,
you can store it in a jar, and use it as a garnish for soups,
potatoes, or any other food that might benefit from savoury
crispness. The fat is especially good for latkes (we’ll talk about
them another time) and other fried potato dishes. I also recommend
a shmear on bread with salt.

The truly provident will save chicken skin in a freezer bag for
a rainy Sunday.

The Big Day Out is coming. Last year, there was a drug shortage
all over the North Island as every gramme of illicit substance got,
um, sucked into the stadium. No acid to be had for love nor
money, according to my informants.

Any sensible drug abuser ought to be stock-piling now, in
order to have a stash for themselves and some to sell on the day to
pay for their tickets.

Of course, in a post-Prohibition society, what we should really
have is a Euphoriant Futures Market. About now you’d buying Ecstasy
options in order to assure yourself of a stable price come January.
Of course, someone like me could try and corner the market in speed
futures. Dealers are already used to haggling and would adjust in
no time. You’ll want call options, thirty dollars a tab, six months
expiry, at two bucks each.

My Uncle Cleave (Anderson) died on Thursday. It wasn’t a
surprise, in that he had been slowly succumbing to cancer for a
long time; but it was, in that I saw him only last weekend, and
although he was frail, he seemed good for a little while yet. He
was certainly alert and had his wits, unlike my mother, who went
out in a haze of morphine.

I didn’t know Cleave that well, but I have some good memories of
visiting him and Wilma when we were kids. He had worked as a
glazier for years at AHI and had some neat glassware that he had
made, like the classic glassblower’s swan and cygnets. He also had
the most productive vegetable garden. There were very few weeds,
because they never stood a chance underneath the thickly sown
vegetables. Wilma, in my mind’s eye, is always preparing a massive
afternoon tea for when Cleave and the boys get back from the
rugby.

I also remember the photo of Cleave in his All Black jersey
(Maori All Blacks, 1953, I think) which had pride of place on the
wall. The funeral was down at the Suburbs rugby club. I didn’t make
it, but Dad did, and he tells me that many, many friends and whanau
were there.

Wellingtonian On Loan To Auckland. This I learned from a
recruiter (or “pimp” as we contractors affectionately call them)
when I told him that I’m moving. Yes folks, I’m out of here.
Hannah’s mum has a hot gig at Middlemore so I’m going to tag along,
some time between now and the new year. Any employment leads
gratefully received.

I’ve come to love Wellington: it’s beautiful, compact, full of
life and more urban energy than a small city has any right to. But
I’m looking forward to moving north, closer to my family and the
elusive home-grown Christmas tomato.